Breathe
by Banana Tooth
Summary: There's no way to get rid of her. MacStella, post "The Thing About Heroes."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Get ready for Grouchy!Mac…but of course Stella gets him straightened out in the end. ;-)

**Spoilers: **Season Four, "The Thing About Heroes"

**Disclaimer:** I am in no way connected with CBS, the CSI Franchise, or its writers, producers, or directors.

* * *

He's still breathing hard. He feels dazed as he gives his statement to Flack and numbly watches the others document the scene, watches the paramedics take Jimmy and Andy. He even lets them check him out—because Stella makes him, but he won't admit that—but refuses to go to the hospital. He's fine, he tells himself. His pulse rate is just too fast.

He watches Stella photograph the gun pointing at the door and take it down—the gun that would have shot her. Killed her. Sure, she was wearing a vest, but she was shorter than Jimmy. It might not have even _hit_ the vest.

He watches her move, calm and steady, bagging and marking everything. The others talk to him and he vaguely hears himself answering. He hopes he makes sense.

_His fault._ He keeps thinking that. She would have been bleeding on the floor, life draining from her, and it would have been his fault. He can't breathe.

He finds himself out on the sidewalk, where everyone is loading up. "Come on. Ride with me," he hears her saying, and then it's just the two of them left, standing by the SUV.

He just looks at her. She's turning to go around to the driver's side, but then she catches him staring and stops. "Hey," she says. "You all right?"

He avoids her eyes. "Yeah."

"Mac." She sets her hand on his arm. "What is it?"

He flinches when she touches him. She's always doing that, always touching him. He's all right, until she does that.

He doesn't mean to flinch. Usually he can hide it. But this time she feels it and her eyes are concerned, but she doesn't move away. "We got him. It's over," she says softly, and now she's rubbing her hand up and down his arm.

Does she think that's it? Of course they got him. They were bound to, sooner or later. I almost got you _killed_, he thinks. Doesn't she see that? It's all because of him…Andy would have had no connection to her in the world, if it weren't for him.

He wants to grab her, crush her, pour out his relief and his guilt and tell her he's sorry, over and over again. He wants to push her up against the side of the vehicle, hold her, feel her, until he's convinced himself that she's real and she's all right and it's over.

And if she doesn't leave him alone, he's going to do it.

He moves away, shrugging her hand off as gently as he can. He doesn't want to hurt her feelings. She's just trying to help. "Let's go," he says, but she's blocking the way so he can't open the door. And she doesn't move.

"Mac. Look at me." Her voice is still soft, but she speaks firmly. He makes himself meet her eyes. Hers are dark and anxious. He doesn't say anything, and she looks at him for a long time and then to his dismay she sets her hand along his face.

Her palm is cool and gentle and he wants to bury his face in the crook of her neck. He drops his eyes again; he can't help it. She steps closer, rests her forehead against his other cheek. "Thank God you're okay," she murmurs, and he can feel her breath warm against his skin.

His fists clench at his sides. He's almost shaking with the effort not to move, and what he keeps thinking now is—she knows. She _knows_ what he'll do. And she still won't leave him alone.

* * *

She knows, because he's done it before. It was the fourth day…or maybe the fifth, and she'd just shown up and come in without being invited. He had let her sit at the other end of the couch, because he didn't know what else to do. Hadn't talked. When she said something, he'd answer in one word.

"Mac," she'd finally said, just above a whisper, and he'd jerked himself angrily off the couch and gone to the window and stood there shaking, his back to her. He could hear her getting up, coming over to him…and then she was touching his shoulder and saying something and he'd spun her around and backed her up against the wall, hard.

He remembers leaning against her, feeling her body all along the length of his own. He could feel her hipbones—he always remembers that, for some reason: her hipbones jutting into him because he was pressing against her so hard. He had leaned his forehead against the wall beside her head, breathing hard, and she'd been warm and soft and _there_ and he'd thought, he could cheat. Right there.

And then it had hit him, all over again, that it wasn't cheating if your wife was dead. Even if she'd only been dead four days.

He'd shoved even harder up against her, pushed her head sideways against the wall, his face in her hair, and he'd known then that he didn't want _her_; he wanted her to be Claire.

_Let her go, you have to let her go_, he'd thought, and he couldn't, and he'd known he was shuddering but he couldn't stop.

He's never been very sure what happened after that, because the next thing he remembers is waking up on his couch and seeing her sitting on the floor in front of it, her head resting on his arm. He'd thought she was asleep too, but when he stirred she had lifted her head and smiled at him.

He'd stared at her for a moment, still confused by sleep and by her still being there. "I'm sorry," he'd said, his voice raspy.

She'd shaken her head. "Nothing to be sorry for," she'd murmured.

Of course _that _wasn't true, but he'd realized that he'd just slept, for the first time, and he remembers feeling, looking up at her, just the faintest glimmer of hope. Hope that maybe, someday, he was going to be all right.

* * *

He is all right, now. As long as she doesn't touch him. Because, now, he doesn't want her to be Claire. He wants _her_. And he's not sure if that's better or worse.

Finally she squeezes his arm and moves away. "Come on," she says again. "Let's go home."

"I have to get back—" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"You are _not_ going back to work."

"I need to…"

"Sheldon will take care of it. And Danny. They know what to do." She's going around, getting in the driver's seat, so he gets in too. He's too tired to argue.

They don't talk during the drive. She finds a space and he turns to thank her for the ride, but she's getting out, so he sighs and gets out too. She even reaches the door of his building first and stands there waiting for him to unlock it, so he does, and follows her up.

There's no way to get rid of her. He eyes her warily as she removes her jacket and kicks off her shoes, because what is _this_, is she moving in?

"Are you hungry?" she asks.

"No." He is, but that's not her problem.

"Why don't you get a shower? I bet you'll feel better."

He feels fine, but she's probably right. He leaves her there and takes a long time in the shower, and dresses in his workout clothes, and comes out hoping she's gone. She's not.

"Come and sit down," she says. He sits on the couch and she sits beside him, looking at him in concern. "Are you sure you feel all right?"

"I'm fine."

"That must have been a nasty knock to the head."

He doesn't want to talk about that. He doesn't want to talk about anything. He looks down at his hands until she touches his chin, turning his face toward her. "Mac," she says. "Tell me what's wrong."

He thinks how he still isn't breathing right, after coming so close to losing her. He thinks about Andy, the scumbag, stalking her and sending her gifts and how hearing him talk to her on the phone made his skin crawl.

He thinks how beautiful her mouth is and how he could reach out, right now, and pull her to him and kiss her and lean her back until she's lying on the couch, underneath him, and then he could tilt her chin up and kiss her all along her throat, down to her collarbone.

And _that's_ what's wrong.

He drops his gaze again. He can't look in her eyes and not tell the truth. "Nothing. I'm okay."

The corners of her mouth tighten, but she nods. "Okay. Well—why don't you lie down? See if you can sleep for a little while?"

He thinks that over for a long moment. He doesn't think he'll sleep, but it will give him an excuse to get away from her. Maybe she'll even leave. "Okay," he says, and starts to get up.

"No, stay here." She gets up instead and motions toward the couch. "I have to watch you. You could have a concussion."

"I don't have a concussion, Stella."

To his surprise, a broad grin spreads across her face. "What?" he asks in confusion.

"You're right," she says, biting back laughter. "You're too hard-headed."

He cracks a little smile at that, but he doesn't think that's very funny, and besides, who is she to call _him_ hard-headed? He stretches out along the couch, on his side, with his back to her. He hears her sit in the armchair, but after a minute she gets back up and he feels her fingers trail along his sleeve before she gently takes his cell phone from his hip and sits back down.

He's too tired to even care. He finds himself thinking, as he drifts off, that she'll take care of things anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

The fabric of the couch slowly comes into focus before his eyes. He blinks. He has to think where he is and what's happened. Stella was here. Is she still? Hoping against hope, he turns to his other side.

She's still in the armchair, leaning her head against its back. She's fallen asleep reading the paper, with both their phones cradled on her lap. He smiles, and then it all comes back to him and a pang of remorse goes through him, so strong that it's actually painful.

She wakes up then with a little start, and grins at him, gets up and sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, and he smiles back up at her. "Hey," she says softly.

"Hey."

"You hungry?"

"Yeah."

She reaches out and brushes her fingers through his hair, and down along his cheek, and then she gets up and goes to the kitchen. His eyes follow her, and after a moment he gets up and goes to lean in the kitchen doorway.

He doesn't have any food, he knows that, but apparently while he was asleep she had done what she could—she'd sliced up his few slightly shriveled apples, and beaten up eggs in a bowl. He watches her as she heats a frying pan and puts bread in the toaster and scrambles the eggs—because he likes scrambled better than fried—and almost right away she has the food on the table and he's still standing there, blinking at her.

Her mouth twists like she's trying not to laugh and she sits down and raises her eyebrows at him, so he grins and sits across from her. "How do you feel?" she asks.

"Better."

"Good."

He butters his toast and thinks that he owes her…an apology, sure, but also an explanation. Not that he has any excuse. "Stella." She looks up. "I'm sorry. About earlier."

She shakes her head. "Don't worry about it."

"I was…upset." _That_ sounds lame, he thinks.

"Mac…you were attacked and held hostage at gunpoint and almost killed. I think you can be as upset as you want."

He thinks: that's not it. At all. "Well—I shouldn't take it out on someone else. And I'm sorry."

Her forehead wrinkles a little. "You didn't," she says gently. He doesn't know what to say to that, because of course he did. "But when you're ready…you can tell me about it."

Her eyes hold his steadily until he looks down. He doesn't know what to say to that either. It's not a matter of being ready. He _can't_ tell her.

"You know, Mac," she begins quietly, and he looks back up, but her eyes are on her plate now. "Drew and I were never together."

"I know," he says.

She blinks. "No…I mean we were never actually dating. I don't know what he told you, but…we had a drink, one time. That was it. He wanted to have dinner, but I wouldn't do it."

Now he can't look away, but she still doesn't look up. "I shouldn't even have done that much, but…I don't know. I guess it was kind of flattering, to have someone paying that much attention to me."

That makes him mad, because she _should _have someone paying attention to her. Someone who's not a psychotic stalker.

He would. He'd never let her forget that he was thinking about her. And he'd take her to the opera and the ballet and he's never been much of a guy for flowers but he knows she likes to get them so he'd send her flowers every Monday morning. And more, if it didn't annoy her.

He sounds an awful lot like a psychotic stalker himself, he thinks with disgust, and tries to focus on her words.

"But even if none of this had happened, it still wouldn't have gone anywhere. He gave me the creeps," she's saying. "There wasn't ever anything between us, Mac, and…I just wanted you to know that."

"Okay," he says, because it seems important to her that he understands, but he's not sure that he does.

"Well—" She's changing the subject, looking up again. "How are the eggs? Do you want anything else?"

"They're great. Everything's great." He smiles at her. "Thank you, Stella."

They clear away the dishes together. And then they're standing together at the sink, as she finishes washing the skillet and gives it to him to rinse, and she says, "So…if you're feeling okay, I think I'm going to go."

"Okay." His voice sounds just a little strained, because her elbow is brushing his and he's back to where he started. He can feel the warmth radiating from her and he could pull her into his arms right here, set his face against her hair, back her up to the counter and feel her long and slender and beautiful against him.

He could do that, he tells himself. She's been his best friend for years and years and he can certainly hug her if he wants to. But he knows, as he feels his shoulders tense up and all his muscles start to tighten again, that that's not all it is. That's why he can't do anything at all.

He follows her back to the living room. She stops by the chair where she's left her jacket and turns to him. "_Do _you feel all right?" she asks.

How many times is she going to ask him that? He'd be irritated except he realizes that maybe if he _acted_ like he felt all right, she'd stop asking. "Yes," he says for the hundredth time, and then, unexpectedly, she wraps her arms around him.

He just stands there. He's flinching again, drawing into himself, and then suddenly he's angry. Angry at himself. He's a jerk.

She's spent hours here. She's given him a ride home, tried her best to comfort him, watched over him while he slept. She's been concerned over his head injury and she created a meal out of his pathetic food supply and all he can do is shrug her off like a jerk. He's a loser.

He sets his arms around her, pulls her to him, and she immediately nestles into him, her cheek on his shoulder. "Mac," she says, and her voice isn't quite steady. "_Please_ tell me what's wrong."

For some reason he considers it this time. Maybe it's because if she cares this much she deserves, if nothing else, _some_ kind of an explanation… After a long time, he hears himself speaking.

"Stella—do I give you the creeps?"

She laughs, silently, but he can feel it coursing through her. "No, Mac. You don't give me the creeps at all." She turns her face against his neck. "Why? Do you want me to have a drink with you?"

"Would you?"

She goes still in his arms and he thinks: now he's done it, but she says gently, "Of course I would. I would have _dinner_ with you, Mac."

"You would?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow night?"

"I'd love to."

He shifts, pulls away a little. He needs to see her. He needs to make sure…because of course he knows she'd _eat_ with him. They've had dinner together dozens of times.

She looks back at him steadily. Her eyes are shining. "Are you sure?" he asks.

She grins. She leans forward and brushes a tiny kiss against the corner of his mouth and says, "Come on, Mac. Why do you _think_ I won't leave you alone?"


	3. Chapter 3

He knows he looks like an idiot. He knows his eyes must be huge and he imagines he looks like she just punched him in the gut, because that's what he feels like.

She's laughing at him. Her eyes sparkle as she says, "Good night. See you tomorrow."

What—? No. Not on her life. He reaches out and catches her shoulders before he can even think, while memory after memory floods his mind: Christmases and birthdays, hospital waiting rooms, smiles and encouraging words and her unfailing listening ear. He doesn't quite believe it, but it would make sense, now that he thinks about it…

He doesn't know what to do, what to say. He steps forward, closing the space between them, and she looks up at him, beautiful in the soft light. He ducks his head, his lips hovering along her cheek but not touching her because he's waiting for her to pull away, to tell him to stop.

She doesn't. She turns her head and sets a kiss against his throat, slow and soft. He feels his heart skip a beat and his mouth finds the spot just below her ear, the corner of her jaw, where he's always wanted to kiss her. Her breath catches and he hopes that's a good sign as his lips slowly trace her long, perfect jaw line, just as he's so often followed it with his eyes. He thinks about how often he's wanted to do this and all of a sudden it hits him that now he _is_ and, seemingly, she wants it too…

He gives in. He's not sure how but suddenly he has her up against the wall, bracing himself with his hands on either side of her. For a moment she just stares up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, her palms against his chest, and he looks back at her, breathing hard.

She seems to recover first from surprise. "Hey," she murmurs, and tilts her chin up and brings her lips to his.

She's gentle and quiet and it's not enough. The back of her head bumps the wall as he kisses her like he wants to, hard and long and deep, and again and again, and it's still not enough. He doesn't think it ever will be. He feels her clench the front of his shirt in her fists and she keeps making these little whimpering noises and he wants to keep making her make them. He wants to show her. He wants her to _know_…

Something he does, he's not sure what, makes her give a little cry and her fingers scrabble urgently at his shirt. He catches her sides and his fingers close around her ribs and he feels again how small she is in his hands—he always forgets that, because she's so strong and she holds herself so straight—and he can feel her breath coming in little gasps, quick and irregular.

He's leaning so hard against her that he wonders that she can breathe at all, but when he tries to give her a little more space she wrenches him back by his shirt, almost slamming him up against her again. She kisses him back with a ferocity that startles him, almost scares him, and he dares to think for the first time that maybe, _maybe_, it's been the same for her as it's been for him.

His mind flashes back to the last time they did this and she's the same as he remembered, warm and yielding beneath him, and…he feels her hipbones. He slides his hands down to them now, pressing his palms there, pinning her maybe a little too forcefully against the wall but he can't help it because now he's thinking, _this_ time it's okay.

It must be okay, the way she's arching against him, almost desperately. His teeth graze her lower lip and she shudders suddenly. He feels it tear through her body and he bites down gently and her arms go up around his neck, tight, one hand tangled in his hair. "Mac," she gasps, and says it again, louder, finally getting his attention.

Breathless, he straightens just enough to see her. "Easy," she murmurs, and turns her forehead against his cheek again, like she'd done before. "We need to be careful tonight," she explains. "For you."

"I'm fine," he says for the hundred and first time.

"Yeah, I'll bet you are," she says, and he hears the laughter in her voice. She kisses him again, softly, her hands sliding down over his shoulders, down his arms, and she takes his hands from her hips and squeezes them and turns them loose. "I'm going to go," she tells him gently.

He thinks that she's never been more beautiful, with her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed and her hair tousled. She's radiant. "Don't go yet," he says.

"Mac…"

He nods toward the couch. "Just—stay a little while."

She smiles. "Just for a minute," she agrees.

This time he sets his arm along her shoulders as she settles in, and he grins when she wraps herself all around him. He holds her for a moment, his face in her hair, and finally he asks, "Are _you_ all right?"

"Me?" She sounds surprised. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Listen. I'm sorry about before."

"It's fine, Mac."

"I was afraid," he says quietly. She shifts her face against his shoulder, looking up at him. "I was afraid you were going to come through that door."

"Oh," she whispers.

He swallows. "Andy didn't want to kill me. He wanted me to lose someone close to me. Like he did. And if it had been you…"

"Mac—stop." She reaches up to touch his face. "I know. I know what it's like. But…we can't worry about what might have happened. We'll go crazy that way. It's over, and we got him, and we're here."

"Yeah," he says, half-accepting her words.

She strokes her thumb across his cheek. "Besides, Flack would never have let me go in first."

That's true. He hadn't even thought of that. "Well…I didn't want Flack to get shot, either."

She grins. "So are you going to tell him that, too?"

"Maybe not like this…"

"Good," she says, laughing, and he's laughing with her. She reaches her arm across him, hugging herself up to him. "Mac…did you ever tell anyone about what happened when you were a kid?"

He sighs. "No."

"Nobody at all?"

"No."

"I'm sorry," she says gently. "That you had to carry that around with you. That must have been terrible."

He shakes his head. "I never wanted to talk about it."

"Well, someday…if you want…you can tell me."

"Okay," he says, to his surprise. He could tell her. He almost _wants_ to. She has a right to know, anyway, after what Andy tried to do.

She turns her head to press a kiss to his neck. "We're going to be all right, Mac," she murmurs.

His arm tightens suddenly, hard, around her. "I know."

* * *

He wakes up a while later with his head on the arm of the couch and hers on his shoulder, and he's tangled up in her long limbs and that makes him smile. He's very careful not to wake her as he toes off his shoes and lets them drop to the floor, and then he just lies there, soaking up her warmth, feeling himself breathe in unison with her.

He's breathing just fine now, he notices.


End file.
